


The Christmas Dinners

by Subject13



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Christmas, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, No Eurus Holmes, No Underage Sex, Sherlock Being a Good Brother, Sherlock Holmes is a Bit Not Good, Sherlock is a Brat, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-21
Updated: 2019-11-21
Packaged: 2021-02-16 10:00:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21506026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Subject13/pseuds/Subject13
Summary: The past Christmases Sherlock and Mycroft spent together as brothers and the first one they spent as lovers.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Sherlock Holmes
Comments: 14
Kudos: 20





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LadyGlinda](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyGlinda/gifts).



> Tags to be added. 
> 
> This fanfic goes out to the marvellous LadyGlinda, who's fanfictions had brought me much joy and happiness. Keep being awesome!
> 
> Not beta'd and brit-picked. English is not my first language. I apologise for any mistakes.

Mycroft crept into his room after the festivities had finally quiet down. It was 25the December and his parents were currently bidding their goodbyes to the last family members leaving their Christmas party. Sherlock was long asleep - or so he presumed - and the older Holmes sibling was absolutely exhausted. The noises, the people, the way he had to pretend his joy upon receiving his presents. Not entirely pretended though. He was glad and he was greatful and most of the gifts indeed did bring him joy, but on the inside. He never really was the kind of child to jump up and down in euphoria after ripping open the festive paper. 

He was clad in his soft pajamas, ready to climb up into his bed and fall asleep huddled in warm sheets, but something stopped him. It was a tiny little box set up on his bedside table, wrapped in a very tasteful dark blue paper, only a little note stuck on the top. Mycroft leaned over to read it: _Merry Christmas, Myc._ He had no doubt over who was his Father Christmas. His little brother Sherlock's handwriting was unmistakable. For a child of only 6 years, he had such a beautiful handwriting. Very carefully, he snuck his nails to the adhesive tape on the sides of his present and managed to peel it off, without damaging the paper. Then he opened the box. Inside was an exquisite fountain pen, the kind that is supposed to serve it's user till their final breath, professionally made and without a doubt quite expensive. He took it in his a bit chubby fingers and just continued to roll the cool object in his hands, observing it. For any other person, it might not seem thst much, but Mycroft saw it as a very thoughtful gift. He tried to hold it as if he were to write and unsurprisingly, it fit perfectly in his hand. 

That moment, Mycroft knew that he would protect this pen as if his life had depended on it. Obviously, his smart amazing little brother noticed how awkwardly he'd grip the cheap pens and how his fingers were swollen after using it for a longer period of time. As of now, all he wanted to do was to burst into his brother's room and cuddle him. Thank him. Inquire him as to how he got the money for it. But Sherlock was asleep and would be until the morning, when new experiments were meant to be done and more questions were to be asked. Carefully, he set the pen back into its box and buried himself into the duvet, turning off his bedside lamp. He thought about his brother and how he had to smother him in affection the very next day, until he fell into a sweet, undisturbed sleep.

\---

A few years later, Mycroft, 16, had been sitting in the dining room with his parents, enjoying a glass of wine. Mr and Mrs Holmes took notice over how mature and responsible he was for his age and included him in the Christmas eve dinner toast. Sherlock was sulkily eating up his veggies, still mad over not being able to at least taste the brugundy liquid. He'd grow to be a true scientist one day, Mycroft thought fondly, as he watched his younger sibling poking at his potatoes with a fork, a cute little pout on his lips. Sherlock has changed over the last three years. He had become closed off, way more introverted and less approachable. At least to most people. 

When alone with Mycroft, he'd at first just grumble, but after an hour or so, he'd excitedly tell him of all the new things he had learned, being his adorable little brother. And when he had a particularly bad dream, he would still climb up into his brother's bed for comfort. Mycroft would lightly protest, uttering comments about 'wild imagination' and 'corpse-like cold feet', but in the end, he'd hold Sherlock close and listen to him explaining the nightmare, offering words of comfort. Then they'd fall asleep, curled up next to each other, deliciously warm and comfy. He snapped out of his mind after father directed a question at him and he'd answer it coolly, as if he wasn't lost in his sentimentality for Sherlock.

An hour has passed and Sherlock was still sitting at the table. The plates were gone, the only dishware remaining were the glasses and a bottle of wine. "Oh dear, look at the time!" Mummy Holmes' voice rang suddenly, "Sherlock, I think it's time for you to head to bed, dear, tomorrow's Christmas day!" Without a word, said boy rose to his feet and started his journey up into the bathroom to prepared for bed. After a while, Mycroft excused himself and headed up as well. The older sibling made his way into the younger boy's room. He was still in the bathroom, as was evident from the sound of running water. Mycroft, glass still in his hand sat on his brother's bed and looked around. The secret present he had gotten for Sherlock sat on the bedside table and Mycroft sipped at his wine while he waited. Minutes passed and then the door opened. Sherlock, his hair still damp from his shower stood in the doorway, dressed in silky pajamas he received just a month or so prior. He was growing up so fast, his clothes from last year were hopelessly short. 

"Myc?" He asked in a little voice. "Figured you might be a tad impatient to wait until tomorrow, so I brought you an early Christmas present," replied the older sibling, smiling in a way that was only reserved for Sherlock. The boy in the doorway smiled brightly and closed the door, stepping further into his bedroom. He dropped on the bed beside his brother and took the nicely wrapped package into his hands. "Go on, open it!" Encouraged Mycroft, watching every move his brother made. Just as he did three years ago, Sherlock opened the gift very carefully, as if the paper was a vital part of his present. Then his eyes widened in delight. Inside was a real science coat and protective goggles. Not the kind for children, or s costume, the one that actual scientists, chemists wear. "Myc!" He cheered and leaped into his arms, almost managing to tackle him on the bed. Had Mycroft's reactions been any slower, he might have spilled the red wine all over Sherlock's linen. "I am afraid that I bought an adult size. Well, there weren't any child sized… " he chuckled then, his left hand stroking along his brother's spine, "but you'll grow into it. And it'll last you until you're a grown up. I'm sure you'll be a splendid scientist." 

And then he got an idea. A silly one, but it just felt right. "And scientist try things," he made Sherlock's attention shift to the glass in his hand. He offered it to the little Holmes, who took it, excited. "Now, just a sip. And if you tell our parents, please know, that we will both surely die… " Sherlock did as he was told, took only a tiny sip, barely a few drops. He rolled the liquid around on his tongue like the finest of sommeliers and then finally swallowed. "Well?" asked Mycroft. Sherlock's expression immediately changed into a disgusted one and he even stuck his tongue out: "Weird. Sour. Gross. How can you stand this?" He all but yelped and them was once again swept into his brother's arms.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Despite being very close once, the brothers begin to drift apart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is angsty. Please forgive me.
> 
> I promise the final one will be filled with fluff, smut, love and rainbows.

Mycroft sighed deeply, as he heard Sherlock bang the door of his room into his face. They used to be so close and now it feels, like his own brother is a stranger to him. Mycroft left for university 4 years ago and that might have been one of the things that caused the siblings to drift apart. At first, they would talk on the phone a lot, at least thrice a week, with Sherlock telling him what he'd been up to and Mycroft would listen, content to hear his voice. He didn't talk about himself much, Sherlock wasn't very interested in his studies. The phone calls then started happening less and less often, until they finally stopped. Mycroft had just turned twenty, he came home to celebrate a found a newly teenaged Sherlock, barely speaking to him or anyone really. He had expected a warm welcome, but was met by a huff and a sulky expression. He tried to reach out, again and again, but each time he called, he distinctively heard Sherlock's changing voice yell at Mummy that he was busy and wouldn't come to the phone.

Of course, that had been difficult enough. He still adored his little brother more than anything else in the world and to be faced with contempt each time they met always made him hurt. However, now it seemed that Sherlock got himself into an another level of trouble. Mummy told him, that Sherlock got temporarily expelled from school earlier that year, because he was found in the possession of hard drugs. Cocaine, to be exact. So Mycroft did what would any good older brother do. He sat with Sherlock in his room, on Sherlock's desk chair, while said boy sulked on his bed, knees pressed into his chest and a petulant expression on his face. Both were quiet for the longest time and Mycroft finally had a chance to truly look at Sherlock, for the first time in a few years. His brother had grown so much, he was surely taller than other boys his age. But he was very skinny too - Mummy did complain that he barely ate. But what captivated Mycroft the most was Sherlock's face. He could clearly see the dawn of the man Sherlock would once be. Those large round eyes took on a more almond kind of shape, making the younger Holmes slightly resemble a cat. His lips were still plush, but the incoming adulthood had given them a very delicious shape. And those cheekbones - Mycroft had no idea which one of his ancestors had such sharp cheek bones.

Overall, Sherlock was a very beautiful boy and would grow to be a very, very beautiful man. Unless he didn't kill himself with the drugs first, Mycroft thought grimly. Finally, he cleared his throat to speak, but Sherlock still ignored him. "Would you kindly explain to me what were you thinking?" he kept his voice calm, not even a hint of an emotion. "You have such a brilliant mind, why would you damage it with that rubbish?" Sherlock still hasn't even looked at him. "Can't you see you're destroying your future?" Finally, a wry huff of laughter left his brother's lips and he looked up. By god, those eyes were made to bewitch. However, now they were stormy and sharp, as if trying to cut Mycroft. " _Future?_ You mean start slaving for the government as soon as possible? And be like _you_?!" There was so much disgust in his voice, Mycroft actually felt the words stab into his heart. He didn't show it, though. Instead, he leaned forward, trying to get through to the young man: "I am asking you, Sherlock, stop this now. You are worrying Mummy and Father and you are worrying me the most. Please, don't destroy yourself like this." 

With the swiftness and elegance of a tiger, Sherlock was on his feet, mere metre away from startled Mycroft. "You," he hissed, "why would you care? Why would you worry? This is the first time we speak in, _what_ , two years?" Mycroft wanted to protest, wanted to say that he indeed _did_ try to reach out, but his words fell on deaf ears. As they would now too, actually. "Get out," Sherlock suddenly said, his glare scorching. "Sherlock," he tried quietly, but was actually pulled up and pushed out of Sherlock's room. Despite his much too thin frame, his brother did have physical strength. The door shut close right in front of him and he could hear Sherlock yell at him to go away. And he did. His heart was heavy and everything felt... wrong, empty, pointless, simply _fucked up._ Instead of returning downstairs, where his parents were quietly chatting by the Christmas tree, he went into his room and packed his suitcase, the one he had emptied mere hours before. His parents wouldn't be happy that he left on Christmas eve and wouldn't be with them tomorrow, but he explained it had been a government emergency and left, putting the presents for his parents under the tree. He left Sherlock's in his old room.

\---

Mycroft had no idea that Sherlock now lived in London, until a shady sounding man phoned him and told him to pick his little brother up. He was just finishing up his lonely Christmas dinner when he received the call. The older Holmes immediately rushed to the address the bloke had given him, actually forgetting his umbrella behind. He was terrified. The man didn't sound like he was about to harm his brother, but the filthy part of town he found himself in didn't help his uneasiness. He ran to the correct building and banged on the front door, which in all honestly looked like it was only standing by sheer power of will. "Mycroft Holmes," asked a dirty looking man who's face appeared in the crack of the doorway. "Yes. My brother, where is he?" Mycroft was aware he sounded panicked, but he couldn't help it. He would most likely die had something happened to his little brother. The door opened and without another word, the man led him through a set of dark, foul smelling hallways, into a an equally bad smelling room. It was absolutely bare of any furniture save for a single mattress upon which laid his brother's thin frame.

"Myc!" He called out as soon as he noticed his presence. Mycroft immediately knew just why he man phoned him. Sherlock was absolutely, utterly out of it. His pupils were so dilated, he couldn't blame it even on dim lighting of the room. He was shivering and doing all kinds of involuntary movements. "Sherlock," he all but whimpered, dropping down onto the dirty mattress beside his brother. "You came," Sherlock said, teary eyed and all but buried his head into Mycroft's lap, thin arms trying to curl around him. "What did he take?" he spoke to the man who now stood over them like an ominous shadow. He was then handed a list and the man left them alone. Mycroft read the crumbled paper and felt tears sting his eyes. That was... that was so much. In fact, it was o the very edge of overdose. "Oh, Sherlock," he whispered and proceeded to stand up, receiving protests from his brother in return. Mycroft took off his coat and wrapped it around the lean shoulders. "Come with me," he said then, his voice harder than he intended it to be. 

Sherlock attempted to stand up, but failed horribly. The older man sighed and put Sherlock's arm around his shoulders, basically dragging him out of the drug den and into his car. There he told the driver to take them into his house, the one he inherited from uncle Rudy. "Myc..." Sherlock all but moaned out. However, before Mycroft could react, he found himself unable to speak. A pair of cold, dry lips were hungrily devouring his own and Sherlock's weak hands fisted in his jacket. "What do you think you're doing?!" he actually yelped, when he managed to push his brother away, thankful for the sound proof divider between them and the driver. "Take me home, Myc," Sherlock whispered, trying to sound seductive and attacked his mouth again. This time, however, he put much more strength into it and Mycroft actually had to fight off. But a horrible thing happened in the span of not even 10 seconds it took him to pry his brother off him. He _liked_ it.

What in the world?! This was so wrong! His 21 year old younger brother, who was currently filthy and high off his tits had forcibly kissed him, and Mycroft, The Smart one, the sensible and responsible one felt heat creeping up on his cheeks and a pull at his groin. He is  _sick_ ! Once again he was pulled out of his musings, but this time Sherlock's mouth dipped somewhere else than to his mouth. Sherlock lowered his head and started putting open-mouthed kisses onto his clothed crotch. "Sherlock! Stop this right now!" he actually stormed. It did the trick, though, Sherlock looked back up, his eyes full of sadness. They were pulling up to his house now and Mycroft couldn't be more grateful. He all but pulled Sherlock out of the car, only managing a court goodbye to his driver and dragged his loose cannon of a younger brother inside. 

He was now prepared to shut down all of Sherlock's posible future sexual attacks to his person, but no came. It appeared as if his earlier outburst has somehow ruined Sherlock's motivation. Thank god. The young man made no protest, when he was undressed and thrown into Mycroft's bathtub. He was washed and put into one of Mycroft's pyjamas. They were obviously too big for him. Mycroft had managed to loose all the fat of his childhood, but Sherlock was obviously malnourished and therefore _extremely_ thin. He then maneuvered him into one of the guest's bedrooms and tucked him in. Sherlock had tears in his eyes and Mycroft momentarily forgot that Sherlock was a grown man of 21 years, high and that he attempted to do unspeakable things with him earlier. Now he saw his baby brother and everything in him screamed to comfort him, whisper sweet nothings to him until he fell asleep. Instead he said: "We'll talk in the morning, brother mine. This must stop." He turned to leave, but Sherlock's voice stopped him. "You don't love me Mycie," he sniffled, "why don't you love me anymore?" The older man turned around. "I will always love you, Sherlock. And I will always be there for you. But you simply mustn't continue like this. Sleep now."

After having a shower of his own, he lied in his bed, restless. He thought about all that happened in the past two or so hours. Why did Sherlock kiss him. He obviously knew it was Mycroft, for he kept saying his name. Why did Mycroft _like_ it? He buried his face in his hands. His brother was a man now, ever as gorgeous as Mycroft knew he would be. Despite the gaunt face, sunken eyes, he was absolutely breathtaking. "Oh god," he muttered to no one in particular. Or perhaps to someone after all. The door to his bedroom creaked open and shivering Sherlock stood in the frame. "What are you doing," Mycroft whisper-shouted, "go back to bed!" "I'm cold," Sherlock replied as if he was a small child and without waiting for his brother response, he climbed into the bed with him, instantly curling his arms around his older brother. Mycroft was torn. He wanted to protest, send him back, threaten to tie him to the guests' bed, but at the same time, he craved to pull him closer, be the caring, comforting big brother he was when they were children. Before he made his mind however, he found Sherlock fast asleep.

Sherlock woke up the next morning in Mycroft's bed. Alone and very nauseous. He'd never been in his brother's house before and was almost sick all over his brother's bedroom floor, before he stumbled into the bathroom and emptied his stomach there. After he was finished, he saw Mycroft standing in the doorway, a sad expression on his face. After breakfast and a very long discussion, which involved yelling, hurtful words and even a few sobs, what Sherlock received for Christmas that year was a rehab and non-stop surveillance.


End file.
